


right bower

by pseudocitrus



Series: deal [1]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: Crack, First Time, M/M, Size Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:59:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The CCG is chock full of attractive people, but Furuta has yet to get first-hand (and hands-on) evidence of how good ghoul-slaughtering is for toning the body. He’s still just a kid, after all! What is he now? Five years old? Almost six? Whatever. The point is, he’s maturing, as evidenced by the fact that the increasing effort Arima takes to fit into his white coat is starting to become less amusing and more intriguing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	right bower

**Author's Note:**

> a wildly ridiculous furuta/arima fic written from some headcanons with neimana :'D

He drops the first hint when he sees that first white strand. That thin, beckoning sign. That tiny beacon illuminating the jagged cliffs to come.

“Getting old, Arima-san?”

Furuta points, and Arima Kishou looks at him, and then at a mirror they’re passing in the lobby. The motion sweeps the white hair out of sight, and Furuta reaches out to comb Arima’s hair around until the white hair sticks out once more. Even then, it’s lost again the instant Arima looks away in disinterest.

“Let’s get back to work.”

Furuta purses his lips.

“Reaper” or “CCG’S Greatest Asset” or whatever aside, the variety of asset that Furuta is most interested in was coming into greater prominence recently, particularly because Arima walks at a stride and doesn’t care if Furuta trails behind him with a downward gaze and mimed whistle.

The CCG is chock full of attractive people, but Furuta has yet to get first-hand (and hands-on) evidence of how good ghoul-slaughtering is for toning the body. He’s still just a kid, after all! What is he now? Five years old? Almost six? Whatever. The point is, he’s maturing, as evidenced by the fact that the increasing effort Arima takes to fit into his white coat is starting to become less amusing and more intriguing.

“Your report took soooo long,” Furuta whines. “You have to take responsibility. Let’s take a break. Grab lunch or something. Ah, or!” He tries to make it sound like an idea that just occurred to him. “If you don’t want to spend money, you can come over to my apartment. There’s a nice noodle place near my house. We could —”

“Rest if you want,” Arima says. “I have work.”

:::

Work, work, work. Arima Kishou-san, busy bee, stripey hair and everything.

It takes months, still, then, though who can really say how fast or slow time really moves for either of them?

All Furuta knows is this:

Arima’s hair is almost equal parts pale and dark, nowadays.

Also, Arima is starting to spend more time looking at the people around him, or at windows, either outside them or at his own reflection in the shopfronts they pass.

Furthermore, during his spare time, he squints down at small books about sex which are always a humongous pain for Furuta to sneak back into Arima’s coat pockets.

And one day, when Furuta starts making some new excuse to go to his apartment, Furuta doesn’t even finish before Arima says, “Yes.”

:::

They still go through the motions of a small dinner, a fact which makes Furuta huff proudly when Arima Kishou makes his confession. Let no one think that Furuta mistreated Arima Kishou when the Reaper was still a virgin.

“So…so you’ve never done it. Ever.” This is what Furuta manages to say after he stops laughing.

“I’ve read books,” Arima says.

“Yeah, but those can’t teach you about it, really.”

Especially not when Furuta happens to know that those books have titles like _The Pursuit and Politics of Sex and Interpersonal Relationships_ and _Give and Receive Modern Global Sex Survey Results and Analysis._

Arima watches him. “You’re saying all books are insufficient?”

“Come on! There’s way more to sex than the dry stuff in boring old books. You can’t get the _real emotions_ from those lifeless things. You can’t get any real _feelings_. You know what I mean, Arima-san? Feelings?”

“No,” Arima says.

“I also watched a video,” Arima offers after some thought.

“That,” Furuta says emphatically, “is even worse.”

“Then…” Perfect Special Class Arima Kishou trails off, and hangs. Floating in the emptiness, he adjusts his glasses.

“Then…I…apologize for troubling you to teach me about it,” Arima says carefully.

“It’s a _huge_ trouble.” Furuta sighs, loudly. “Let’s get it over with.”

:::

Furuta readies himself. He opens up the box in his mind labeled _Arima Kishou_ , inside of which is little more than dust.

The first thing filed in: good muscle structure. _Really_ good. Furuta had some idea given the sound of popping seams when Arima stretches in a new shirt, but this is better than imagined. If Arima’s body were any harder, even the most joyful Buddha statue would weep in envious misery. Furuta throws Arima’s dress shirt aside dramatically, and Arima watches it go. The shirt drapes off a chair back and then slips and slumps to the ground.

“Is that necessary?”

“No thinking,” Furuta reminds him. “Just feel. _Feel_.”

He watches Arima’s face carefully as he undoes Arima’s belt buckle, but when it slides free, he can’t help himself; he looks down.

Now that. _That._ Is a bulge.

The box is getting nicely filled already. Furuta squeezes generously, and is rewarded with the sight of Arima’s mouth pinching to the corner, just a little.

“Feel,” Furuta whispers, and Arima looks away, and shuts his eyes, and exhales. Furuta takes the opportunity to push him backwards onto the bed, and Arima allows himself to be toppled. Furuta tugs the slacks off completely and throws them, directly opposite to where the shirt went. The impact of it against the wall makes a distinct rustle. Arima opens his eyes to regard Furuta wordlessly and shuts them again when Furuta mouths “ _F-E-E-L_ ” and squeezes Arima’s dick harder.

That one makes Arima’s body tense more meaningfully. He shuts his eyes again and, to his credit, does his best to follow Furuta’s instruction, even when Arima’s boxers are next and Furuta removes them with a barked laugh.

“What?” Arima asks.

“Nothing,” Furuta says, rubbing away a tear.

Literally nothing. Furuta rubs his hands over the skin of Arima’s lower belly, and cups his fingers dutifully beneath Arima’s balls as well as over the alluring crevice further behind. Yup. Smooth, smooth, smooth. No hair whatsoever. Somehow, Arima removed everything.

Well, that’s what he gets for “also watching a video.” There’s something kind of hot about that, about Arima planning to seduce him and preening accordingly. But, it’s a shame, too. Now the question of _Is Arima Kishou’s pubic hair also turning white?_ remains a mystery for another day.

Fortunately, _How big is Arima Kishou’s cock?_  will be answered, ideally as soon as possible. Furuta strokes, gently, watching Arima’s chest rise with another deep inhale, and watching it itself rise too. After some moments, Furuta chuckles, nervously. Kanou didn’t have a hand in this, right? Frankly, Furuta isn’t sure if the idea of this being a real organ is more or less distressing than the idea of it being a wildly ambitious new variety of kagune.

And it’s still growing. Furuta encourages it with a sort of amazed disbelief, fueling the process with a couple good fondles on those balls and a licked finger petting Arima’s nipples to peaked firmness. Arima turns his head further toward his shoulder and swallows, brows furrowed.

“Hey,” Furuta calls. “You going to give me a report, Arima-san? Is this good? Or not?”

“…good,” Arima murmurs.

As if to agree, his dick gives a tremble, and Furuta runs his thumb along the head of it and sees that it comes away wet. Well, good timing. Furuta’s pants are starting to feel way too tight.

Arima sits up on his elbows as Furuta starts working at his own belt buckle.

“What’s happening next?”

“So impatient! Calm down, Arima-san! It’s your first time, so we have to take it a little easy, okay? No matter how badly you want it.” Furuta hooks down his boxers with a sigh of relief and gives himself a couple brisk strokes, to try and dull the edge a little.

In the end, though, it’s for nothing. Furuta pulls Arima forward so his ample butt tips over the edge of the bed, and then uses both palms to grab it, and regrets that he doesn’t have more hands to help himself both keep a stabilizing grip on his dick and to stifle a small sob.

_This. Is truly. Special Class_. There isn’t enough room in the box to contain all the things Furuta is feeling right now, much less the facts. He digs his fingers in and watches Arima’s flesh push out between his fingers; Furuta massages and gives him light little slaps and the way Arima’s butt moves is fantastic, way more compelling and awe-inspiring than any hyperbole that could ever be applied to Arima’s vanilla combat prowess. Arima himself bows forward a little as Furuta makes the two halves of his ass clap together indulgently. Then he spreads Arima apart, and runs a finger in-between, and shivers as his fingertip smooths over a perfectly bare pucker that twitches away from him, shyly.

This is the next vaguely Arima-related fact: Furuta wants in. _Now._ He groans and grips it and gives his dick a tranquilizing clench. Soon. Soon. Furuta reaches for his bedside drawer and misses twice before finally managing to open it. He fumbles for the lubrication tucked away inside.

“You saw this in the video?” Furuta asks, twirling the tube, and Arima nods and then — _Now this is Special Class treatment!_ — bends a leg so it rests on the edge of the bed, granting better access.

“Spread yourself too,” Furuta tells him, salivating, and Arima does so. Even for him, it’s a handful. His knuckles pale as Furuta presses one slicked finger against Arima’s anus, making a circle, and then a second, before posing his index finger and pressing it in, with a wiggle.

It’s warm. Warm and tight. Whatever muscles Arima has on the surface are nothing compared to the ones squirming around Furuta now, constricting out against him first and then, with another knuckle in, begin sucking him in instead, exquisitely.

Arima’s back arches a little, which causes his butt to tilt, invitingly. Furuta pulls out, slow, dragging out the friction before pressing in once more, and again, and again. He alternates deep pushes and shallow ones that rub at the edges of his hole, massaging until they yield and then swallow up Furuta’s second finger with little more than a sharp exhale and a few curled toes.

“Good,” Arima mutters when Furuta looks at him.

“Good,” Furuta replies brightly.

Furuta would never have expected a virgin to take this sort of thing well the first time, even if that virgin is the stoic Arima Kishou. But Arima’s subtle tension, the way he still seems to be unsure of whether to totally relish what’s happening when Furuta works in the third finger, would seem to indicate that Furuta truly is first place, even over a toy or bottle or particularly lucky squash.

Alright. Well. If it’s never been hit yet, it’s time to go further. Arima’s stomach dips as Furuta’s fingers twist their way deeper, as his fingertips begin to caress the walls back, feeling. The pride that fills him when he _nudges_ and Arima makes his first tiny noise of pleasure is too good not too indulge, and Furuta centers and continues pumping determinedly, putting a hand on Arima’s knee to keep him spread, wedging his fingers firmly against the internal tremors.

Arima’s dick is straining now, truly at its max, and it beads out a tiny stream that Furuta realizes belatedly matches the one already dripping down his own helpless cock. Furuta yanks his fingers free, and reaches for the lube again. One thick squirt directly on Arima’s hole, and the other into Furuta’s whole palm, where he slicks it briskly up and down his cock until his own wetness is completely obscured.

Arima’s breaths are so full now that he is exhaling through his open mouth. Furuta leans, aligning his body with Arima’s, both of them just a little shaky. His hands reach beneath again for Arima’s ass, fingers digging, again massaging the halves in and then far apart.

_Slowly._ He’d love nothing better than to feel him now but Furuta reins it in, though not without difficultly. The first contact of that hole against him is nothing compared to the way it first stretches to Furuta’s slow push, and nothing again to Arima Kishou, _Arima Kishou,_ taking and taking and taking him in, submerging him in heat and hungry squeezes.

Ease, ease, ease.

In, in…

_…in._

That’s it. That’s it. Furuta realizes he hasn’t been breathing, and gulps in a breath that’s still staggered with the sensation of being so utterly encompassed. It’s so tight he feels like he can barely move. Arima shifts beneath him, sitting up, and Furuta makes himself sip in more air.

Arima has opened his eyes again; he’s looking at Furuta, through smeared and misted glasses.

“What?” Furuta asks.

“Are we going to kiss?” Arima asks. “I thought it happened before this part.”

Furuta laughs dryly. “You really did watch a video, didn’t you.”

But Furuta leans forward and gives him a peck anyway before re-positioning. One of Arima’s legs bent, and Furuta himself leaning forward, just a little more. Arima’s dick is hard against Furuta’s belly, and Furuta makes a tight circle of his fingers and, as he withdraws, gently strokes Arima from tip to base.

Arima grips the sheets; his breath bursts out of him, and is only halfway replenished when it bursts away from him again, when Furuta reverses his motion.

Push in. Stroke up.

Pull out. Stroke down.

Push…stroke…

Pull…stroke —

He keeps it steady, somehow, for a while, despite Arima’s squeezes, despite him losing grip on his leg as it kicks out; and then the luxury of it, the wonderful warmth and grip of it, is too much for Furuta to resist. He goes a little faster, and then a little more, until Arima’s tightness becomes a lovely hungry softness, until he is taking his own advice, _FEEL_ , and all he can feel is _More_.

_Faster._

_Deeper._

_More!_

He thrusts in earnest, making the bed creak, making Arima’s body jerk and bounce, burying himself again and again into the cushion of Arima’s ass more times than he can count and only feeling his desperation increase.

_Feel._

Arima’s breaths becoming irregular, and strong enough to blow both their hair from their faces.

_Feel._

Arima accepting all of him, pulling him closer and closer into his insides that have become as sweet and welcoming as pudding.

_Feel._

That sharp, fast, bright, hot thing that is boiling up from the dark pit of him, illuminating every cold nerve, scorching every name he’s taken until all that is left is desire, his desire, which is real, and _his_ , and _is him_.

He isn’t sure why he says it, then. It’s just a spur-of-the-moment thing. In the middle of all those glistening feelings something completely irrational, something that would normally be smothered easily inside of him, hefts its fist into Furuta’s vocal cords and makes a slurred yank.

“Aah — mah — Ki — Kissho-san,” Furuta gasps, and Arima blinks at him. Beneath the frames of his glasses, Arima Kishou’s cheeks redden, and —

And that’s it.

Furuta’s cry is poorly muffled by a hastily bitten lip; he empties out of himself, thrust by thrust, until his body comes to a shivering, feeble halt. Dimly, he is aware that Arima’s length is softening in his palm, and that both are sticky.

Furuta withdraws. When he pops free, a couple dribbles follow. He braces himself on the bed, panting. Arima’s chest, he notes, is moving irregularly.

“Well?” Furuta laughs. He reaches for a tissue to wipe across his hand. “How was it? Did you feel? Was it good?”

Arima considers.

“Good,” he answers. His glasses are askew; he adjusts them, and relaxes his legs, closing them shut over the image of his still-dripping ass.

Then, without warning, Arima sits up straighter. He pulls Furuta closer, and Furuta has no time to react to what’s next: a kiss.

It’s just a second, but, it’s soft.

Softer, arguably, than any other part of him.

“Good?” Arima asks. Some time has passed, Furuta realizes suddenly. He’s been staring like an idiot for a good handful of sped-up heartbeats, trying to make sense of…something. Something weird.

Quickly, he pastes his smile back on.

“Good,” Furuta replies brightly.

:::

…weird.

For some reason, the next time they go to give their reports, Furuta keeps his lips locked. He waits, with impatience that he dampens unsuccessfully. They make it all the way down to the lobby mirrors in silence before Arima pauses.

“Furuta,” he says, and before he can finish, Furuta says, “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
